The Bubble Wrap Boy (6 page)

Y
ou had to look hard to find something positive about Bunion Sedgley's appearance.

He was no fashion model. In fact, it looked like he'd been tortured with the biggest ugly stick known to man.

The only positive I'd ever found to his unique look was that he'd never get knocked over by any kind of wind, gale, hurricane, or tropical storm. His feet were way too long to ever let that happen. They were the human equivalent of tree roots.

Shoes had been specially made for him since he was seven years old; you could've strapped a couple of kayaks to his feet and he still wouldn't have been able to wiggle his big toes comfortably.

He was no good at things like soccer, obviously—each shoe would've needed a hundred and fifty cleats to grip the turf—but weirdly, I could never remember him ever doing
the walk
at school. You didn't want to be on the end of it if he was doing the kicking. He'd shear your leg clean off.

Just like Sinus, if his physical freakishness bothered him, it never showed. In fact, there was a real arrogance about him.

He had a habit of rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, swaying with such range that I always felt seasick after two minutes in his company. He knew this and used it like a weapon, especially once he heard I was after something.

“Of course you can have the board…” He grinned slimily.

I didn't buy into his kindness and wondered what might be wrong with the board. Was it actually fifty feet long to accommodate his delicate pinkie toes?

“…but it'll cost you.”

“I've already told you, Bunion, I haven't got any cash.”

He gasped theatrically. “I'm not talking about money. What do you think I am? An animal?”

He circled me in three steps. “No, what I'm talking about is rent. Every week you have the board, you can pay me in food from your dad's place. I've always been very partial to his prawn chow mein. Four times a week should cover it.”

“Four times a week? Do you know how much prawns cost?”

“Well, they're hardly king-sized, are they? The ones your dad serves up are more like shrimp.”

“Once a week.”

“Three times,” he insisted.

“Twice, and I'll throw in prawn crackers.”

“And a pickled egg!” He was salivating now.

“Deal,” I groaned.

“Been a pleasure,” he said, beaming, and strode off to the shed, returning twenty minutes later with a skateboard-shaped cobweb.

“Here you go.” He forced it into my hands like it was cow dung. “Never liked it, anyway. Sucker's game.”

“Thanks,” I said, though I didn't mean it. What on earth was I going to do with this? It was in worse shape than the steel rhino.

“I'll expect first payment on Thursday, six-thirty. Don't be late.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled, and made a pledge to sprinkle his food with seasoning sourced from each of my ears.

My bad mood didn't last long, though. Once I'd sneaked the board in past Mom and chiseled away at the years of cobwebs and dust, it didn't look too bad. It wasn't a four-wheeled equivalent of the trike, anyway.

It was plain black on the top, with a ghoulish devil laughing inanely underneath. There wasn't a scratch on the design, more evidence of its criminal lack of use.

The only problem was the wheels. They were luminous red—exactly what I needed to stand out when whipping up and down the half-pipe—but they were so rusted and underused that they wouldn't turn.

I spent half an hour with my fists wrapped around them, persuading them to give, but even after I used half a can of WD-40, they wouldn't move.

In a last-ditch effort, I stole a bottle of Dad's homemade cooking oil from the kitchen and splashed it on each wheel.

I left it for two minutes, hoping, begging for it to work, and you know what? After a couple of creaky spins, they started to turn, faster and faster, until I could hear the oil heating up so much I could've stir-fried veggies in it.

I punched the air in celebration. This was it. It had to be the start of something.

I was so full of confidence that I planted my feet on the board, pushing my back heel onto the tail of it to flick it skyward like the other boys did.

The board shot from under me and crashed into my dresser, chipping a huge chunk of wood away in the process. I fell backward and landed hard, my head whacking against the bed leg.
Throbbing
doesn't even come close to describing the pain.

I groaned loudly but had no time for self-pity as Mom's footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Charlie? Charlie, dear? Are you all right?”

Without hesitation I leapt to my feet and dived for the board, ramming it under the bed just as she appeared in the room. I must have looked like an idiot, hanging out from under the bed, a lump like a tennis ball swelling on my head.

“Have you hurt yourself?” she cried.

“No, no. I'm fine, honest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” Although my skull was screaming otherwise.

She eyed the room suspiciously, looking for whatever had attacked me. Her eyes fell on Dad's oil.

“What on earth are you doing in here?” she asked, picking the bottle up.

My head spun, causing my mouth to spit out the most ridiculous line ever.

“Dry skin,” I blurted. “On my elbow. Just trying to stop it from itching.”

“Well, don't use
this.
”

And so began a rigorous examination of my elbows, knees, and every other joint on my body. Only after she'd found no evidence of warts, ringworm, eczema, psoriasis, or rickets did she finally leave the room, promising to check up on me in twenty minutes.

Once her steps had faded on the stairs, I dared to retrieve the board from under the bed, wincing at the first scratch to ever grace its surface. It could've been way worse.

This was going to be harder than I thought. It wasn't like Mom afforded me any kind of privacy in life. Secrets weren't really an option. And even if they were, would I ever be able to stand upright on the dang thing, never mind ride it?

S
o began the training. The grueling, butt-numbing, top-secret training. The kind of training usually reserved for Navy SEAL recruits and clandestine wings of the FBI. That was how I saw it, at least. Thinking of it that way dulled the pain that my body was in almost hourly.

I lost count of the number of bruises hidden beneath my clothes. I had so many that I couldn't count them; they merged into each other in one big, aching mess. My body was the equivalent of David Beckham's tattooed arms—well, apart from that girls would've screamed at me for a very different reason.

Obviously.

It was difficult keeping them out of Mom's sight (the bruises, not the girls), especially when I was changing for bed or getting ready for a bath. She had an annoying habit (one of many) of appearing at these times, asking if I wanted bubbles added to the water or whether I needed a drink beside my bed.

I mean,
GET OUT, MOM!

Not that I said that to her, of course; instead, I took more care to lock the bathroom door behind me, jamming anything I could find against it, even spare toilet paper rolls, for that extra, double-quilted security.

Sometimes I felt guilty that she annoyed me so much. I mean, she's my mom, and I could see in her eyes that she really was worried and wanted the best for me. Most of the time, though, I couldn't deal with it and sulkily toed the line like Dad, feeling more and more depressed. I began to understand why he said so little in life.

But as painful as it was, both in my head and for my body, I refused to give up on the skating. In the rare moments that I managed to stay upright, it was the most exciting feeling…even if I wasn't moving.

I spent hours at first just standing on the board, allowing myself to lean farther and farther to the side without falling, feeling the wheels threaten to turn under me. I imagined myself at the ramp, the board thundering beneath as we soared skyward, hearing the gasping of the wind and other skaters as we pulled off a trick never before seen on British shores.

All right, that was a way off—I hadn't really mastered moving on it yet, never mind flying—but the dream of it excited me, inspired me, pushed me onward.

Once I was upright and steady, I risked trying to move, staying behind at school once the yard had emptied, rolling slowly across the parking lot where the asphalt was smoothest.

It was difficult to practice without being seen, or without upsetting Sinus, who couldn't understand why he now had to walk home on his own every day.

“Oh,” he'd huff. “Better things to do, huh?”

I didn't want to upset him, and practicing at school was far from ideal. I'd had to dive into the bushes in the name of secrecy on more occasions than my body cared to remember.

Still, getting another bruise was better than being seen before I was ready, which, by my rate of progress, would be the year 2037.

My problem was simple: I just couldn't balance once I was moving. No matter how hard I tried. Crouching didn't work, and neither did sticking my rear end out. How could the others make it look so easy when I was flailing like Bambi on the frickin' ice?

The breakthrough came just as I was about to give up. I was delivering on the rhino, feeling very grumpy, when I hit a broken bottle in the road. The tires flattened in a second, leaving me stranded with two bags of takeout for a couple of notorious complainers. The guy at number 59 had threatened to make me wear his food the last time I was late, and as kung pao pants weren't exactly the trend this season…Well, you get the picture.

I was panicking. The only option I had was the board stashed in the basket. I'd been trying to practice
between
deliveries, but now? Well, it had to be worth a try. So, with a bag of food in each hand, I rested my left foot on the board and pushed with my right.

Where the bravery or belief came from I'm not sure, but after a shuddery start I was moving. Moving without falling. Moving without bruising another inch of my body.

It was amazing. All right, I wasn't setting a land-speed record or anything, but I was upright. Upright and moving!

And do you know what made the difference? The bags of food. They acted like stabilizers on a bike, keeping me balanced and on track.

I can't even begin to describe the happiness in my gut, but I knew it was growing, seeping through every vein in my body. So this was what adrenaline felt like! Mom had kept me away from it for so long, as long as I could remember, that I wished I could shout out to her now to tell her, show her, that she was wrong to be so worried. No one would die; I could do this and be safe at the same time.

The journey to number 59 was impossible to describe.

There was the odd wobble, of course, but I'll never forget the feeling as I overtook a seven-year-old on his mini-scooter. I had to stop myself from turning around and striking a pose.

The fat guy at the first delivery looked shocked when I showed up on his doorstep.

He checked his watch, then checked again, grabbing the bag to find his food hot for once.

“Move along. No need for a microwave tonight.” He grinned and shoved a ten-dollar bill into my hand. “Keep the change.”

A dollar fifty tip! Score. The closest I'd ever got to a tip before, after holding my hand out expectantly, was him telling me never to wipe my ass with a broken bottle. I knew instantly I'd put the cash toward new parts for the board.

With only one bag of food, though, the rest of the journey was wobbly at best.

I had to scoop the contents of the carton back in after one particularly eggy fall, but I still managed to roll along, throwing my arms out to the side if I felt like I was going to come off.

I grinned stupidly at the guy at my next stop as he eyed his bag suspiciously. It looked like a bomb had gone off in it.

I didn't care about the lack of a tip, because I'd done it.

I was Charlie Han. Skateboarder in training. And I couldn't wait to set foot on that ramp.